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However much the rest of him had aged, his eyes, at least, were the same—heavy-lidded, naproxen blue, full of timeless boyish mischief.
Augusta did not inherit her mother’s patience or her predilection for acceptance.
His pronouncement was made with hope and awe, braided with a bitterness that Augusta recognized as identical to her own.
Augusta could not care less about makeup, but she resented the fact that Bess was given what was viewed as a more important task.
Gone was the cheerful gathering at the table, their mother’s laughter, their father’s smiles. Meals were no longer something to be savored.
Since Augusta’s mother’s death, everything in the apartment drooped with grief.
A glass of milk was a “baby.” A scoop of vanilla ice cream was a “snowball.” If someone wanted a Coke with no ice, George shouted, “Hold the hail!”
“Papa, I want to learn more about your work. I want you to teach me about prescriptions.” When Solomon Stern did not reply, Augusta spoke up again. “I refuse to take no for an answer.”
He was a few years older than she, at most, with an untamable cowlick and chalk-blue eyes.
“I have no children,” she said sharply. He stared at her blankly, as if the words pained him. “Really?” he said. “I thought I heard you had a daughter.”
“I love my work,” she said instead. “Why would I want to give it up?” She gestured to the bowling ball of a stomach that swelled over the top of Irving’s swim trunks. “It’s better than sitting around, getting fat.”
If cigars were involved, there was likely to be whiskey (with Prohibition in force, Stern’s Pharmacy was one of few places in the neighborhood legally allowed to sell liquor).
Her great-aunt shrugged and lifted her chin with a practiced nonchalance. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ve been called far worse.” She squared her shoulders like a boxer in the ring. “It makes no difference what anyone calls me. I know exactly who I am.”
If you were somebody else, I might not have worried. But if you don’t mind my saying, you seem a little bit on the obsessive side when it comes to your exercise. The type of person who likes to adhere to a specific routine. If she’s not swimming, I said to myself, something has to be wrong.”
When Augusta didn’t answer, Irving kept talking. He spoke like someone weaving a spell he desperately didn’t want her to break.
Esther was happy to give the recipe to anyone who asked, but no one else’s soup ever tasted like hers. She was always tinkering with the broth, always adjusting the ingredients. I never make my soup the same way twice, she used to say.
As she worked, she hummed and swayed. Sometimes she sang the strands of a tune that Augusta did not know.
Like most American-born girls in her neighborhood, Augusta could understand some spoken Hebrew and Yiddish, but she did not know enough to read or translate.
“What does the inscription mean?” This time Augusta knew Esther had heard. But instead of answering her great-niece properly, the old woman shrugged and looked away. “Only words,” Esther said.
For a talkative young man, Irving was surprisingly quiet when Augusta was nearby. He seemed to have no problem talking to her father, to George at the soda counter, or even to Bess. But when it came to Augusta, Irving Rivkin was uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
Meanwhile, that night, for the first time in her life, Augusta dreamed she was dancing with someone. In the dream, she could not make out the young man’s face, but his eyes were the palest shade of blue and his hair stuck up in front like Irving Rivkin’s.
“Aren’t you afraid of all the reading? All the studying you’ll have to do?” Augusta shook her head and smiled. “I like reading,” she said. “And studying.”
“She died last year,” Augusta told him. She rarely spoke about her mother’s death, but somehow, with Irving, she didn’t mind. “That’s awful,” he said. “It’s good you were old enough to remember her, though. What’s your favorite memory of her?”
It was always a melancholy conversation, always spoken in the harrowing language of their communal loss. But now Irving had somehow reframed the discussion. His question was not about her grief, but about the lingering joys.
Augusta’s father had plenty of creams, plenty of fancy ointments and salves—surely there was one in the store that might have helped Mrs. Feldman’s granddaughter. Certainly Aunt Esther didn’t know more about such remedies—or any remedies for that matter—than Augusta’s own father.
Besides, although Esther’s command of the English language had been good from the moment she arrived in Brooklyn, she had a way of pretending she didn’t understand whenever she didn’t feel like talking.
As it turned out, the delivery boy had something in common with her great-aunt: both were multifaceted and complex—much more so than they first appeared. Like the ocean, Augusta thought.
Augusta stared at the peaceful blue of the sky and felt the sun warming her wet skin. In her contentment, she forgot about everything else.
“My job isn’t always to keep you safe,” said her mother. “My job is to teach you to keep yourself safe. The ocean can be beautiful and serene, but it’s so much more than that, Augusta. It can be overwhelming. Sometimes it can be dangerous. Its complexity is what makes it so special. There is always another wave forming in the distance. Some turn out to be only ripples, but some may head toward you at full speed.”
“You can’t give up something that brings you joy just because it is difficult. Or because there may be a risk.
Augusta had avoided the ocean ever since her mother’s funeral.
Inside the hideous, squat brick building, the air smelled like chemicals and sweat. There were no waves, but there was no blue sky, either. Coney Island was a million miles away.
“You know, I just lost a wonderful friend of mine—she was Margaret-Anne, but we all called her Honey. That may be why I have nicknames on the brain.” “I’m sorry about Honey,” Augusta said, softening. “I lost my sister six months ago. She was my best friend in the world.”
“Anyway, Book Club is wonderful,” said Shirley. “Last month, we read The Cider House Rules.”
Augusta nodded. She didn’t say so, but Sense and Sensibility was one of her favorites. To be honest, she was surprised by the choice—she imagined they’d be reading the new Tom Clancy book or perhaps a mystery by Agatha Christie. Of course, Augusta read those authors, too. In fact, she read everything she could get her hands on.
Irving sauntered into the room, carrying a dog-eared copy of the Jane Austen novel as if he’d actually read the damn thing.
Not only had Irving read the book, but it appeared as if he’d taken notes.
Augusta couldn’t help herself from chiming in. “Elinor isn’t indifferent,” she argued. “She’s trapped in a no-win situation. What is she supposed to do? Cry herself sick like Marianne?” Before Harold could answer, Augusta continued, her voice rising both in pitch and volume. “Elinor doesn’t have that luxury. The only man she ever loved is going to marry someone else, and she has to live with that heartache. She has no choice but to suffer in silence to protect everyone else around her. How can you call that indifferent?”
But Solomon Stern didn’t seem angry. Instead, he seemed resigned. “Your aunt and I had a long discussion, and I decided to let it go,” he said. “I don’t want her interfering with my customers, but if she sticks to soup and skin rash ointments, I won’t have any problems with her.”
She wanted to please him, to bring back his smile, to pierce the screen of his grief so that he might return to her.
Not Augusta. She may have been young, but she knew herself well enough to understand her own particular strengths. She was always most poised with a pencil in her hand, most confident with a book spread beneath her long fingers.
Days later, the cycle started anew: snow slowly replaced with sludge; anticipation replaced with desolation.
His eyes had dulled to a stormy blue—the color of icy, churning waves instead of a sunny cobalt sea.
It didn’t take long for Dr. Birnbaum to diagnose Irving with the flu. Warm liquids and plenty of rest were prescribed. Irving was young and healthy, the doctor said, and certain to make a full recovery.
Mrs. Rivkin excused herself for a few minutes, and Augusta gripped Irving’s hand even tighter. “You know what my favorite thing about you is? You say you’re not smart, but that isn’t true. You’re smart about people. You know how to ask the right questions and say the right things to make people feel good.”
During the Spanish flu outbreak, he’d lost over a dozen customers, some even younger than Irving. There was no cure for influenza, and no one could predict the twists and turns that the illness might take. “I have nothing left to try,” he finally admitted. “We will have to pray that his fever breaks.”
wasn’t so simple. There were no guarantees. The books she had relied on were deficient, the formulas inchoate, the explanations incomplete.
Is it normal for people from New Jersey to wear sequins at four o’clock on a weekday?
At some point, it stopped being worth the trouble. The men who asked were either too frail, too hunched, too forgetful, or too needy.
The more she went over it, the more she realized that she had most likely dodged a bullet. Who wanted to be stuck playing nurse? Let Vera take care of him, Augusta thought.
